My Best Friend
by planet p
Summary: AU; 1971. Having a friend is great. But sometimes, it's also not so great. Mentions of violence and child abuse, actual swearing, et cetera.


**My Best Friend **by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

**1971**

_When I grow up_

_I want to say __No_

_Here, on the inside_

_And there, on the outside_

_And I want everyone else to see_

_That what I mean is __No_

_Because now I'm grown up_

_And no one can pretend like I'm just some kid now._

_When I grow up_

_I want to learn to trust_

_When I say __Yes_

_That I mean it_

_And everyone else knows that too_

_And why it is._

_I want to trust_

_Myself_

_And yes_

_You as well._

"Bobby, you see what the problem with this is. You see. It ain't- it just ain't really... decisive. I guess what I'm tryna say is, it ain't at all clear. I still don't know what you wanna be when you grow up, honey. And neither is your teacher gonna know, now. Why do you gotta go pretendin' to be all clever, honey? Why don't you jus' do as the teacher says? It ain't even a proper poem, honey. It don't rhyme. A poem's gotta rhyme. You know that." She nodded. "You just lettin' yourself down, now. And I have a good idea why, too, let me tell you, young man. Cos you jus' didn't want to do the work, isn't that right? Cos it's not fun and you reckon jus' cos o' that, you can get off easy. And what are you gonna say to your teacher, hey? I was too lazy to do it properly! Is that what you're gonna say to your teacher?"

Bobby looked at the table, not saying anything.

"I want you to sit down and finish your homework. Properly!"

He crossed his arms, glaring at the table instead of his mom. "It took me three whole days," he complained.

Martha narrowed her eyes on her son, shaking her head. "And whose own fault is that, young man? Your own! If you paid attention is class more often, it wouldn't have taken you three whole days. It would have taken you one day!"

He put his hands over his face. "Mom, I'm ten!"

"I'll tell you what you are, my boy. You're lazy, that's what you are! And that, that really disappoints me. And I've got to say, I have a feeling it'll disappoint your dad, too."

Bobby reached for the pencil and his exercise book angrily. "Fine, I'll do it again!" he snapped. "Better! If you want me to lie, I can lie!"

Martha scowled and slapped him over the back of the head. "Did you hear me say any such thing?" she demanded.

He rolled his eyes, finally looking up at her. "No, Mom, you didn't say any such thing. Explicitly. You inferred it. Don't you get it? I'm eleven! How am I supposed to know what I'll be when I grow up! Or even what I want to be? Think about it, Mom! For two seconds. Just two seconds."

She slapped him again. "You're a lazy boy, Bobby! And you're really hurting your mom. I don't know what I did wrong-"

"Look, I said I'd do it, alright!"

She shook her head and turned away, leaving the room. "When I get back, you'd better have finished that homework, you hear me?" she told him from the door.

"No shit," he muttered to himself, glaring at his unopened exercise book. He'd expected his mom to have had more to say than that. He'd expected she'd go on and on about how he was really inferring that 'your father and I don't listen to you', but she'd said no such thing.

He supposed he was glad. His mom surely would have gone off, quick as a wink, to tell his father, who'd have hit the roof almost instantly.

He opened his exercise book and flipped through the pages 'til he got to the one he'd most recently been working on, and ripped out the page. His mom was right; it wasn't even a proper poem anyway. Proper poems rhymed, and his hadn't rhymed. In other words, it had been major league sucky.

He needed to do something better; then, he supposed, he'd have to write something for Jimmy to copy during recess. It was such a stupid assignment, but Jimmy wouldn't see it that way; he'd be hyperventilating and freaking out big time.

Staring at the ceiling for a moment, Bobby wondered if he'd be allowed to go by Jimmy's later, after tea, to drop off his assignment so he could copy it out at home instead, or maybe just to tell him not to worry about it, he had it covered. He already knew what Jimmy wanted to be, besides. He wanted to be a surgeon, and help people. He always said so, whenever anyone asked. Maybe he just said it cos it made them look at him sorta differently, though, sorta as though, _Oh, okay. Good on you._ Like maybe he _could_ be someone someday. Exactly the way his mom and dad never looked at him.

_When I grow up_, Bobby began. _I want to be something to someone. What I mean to say is, I want to make a valuable contribution to the community, I guess, and maybe even going a bit farther than that, to our society. Maybe that'll mean I'll want to go into politics, a little further on, when I'm older, or maybe I'll get involved with the community through a different avenue. For example, through one of the many community groups and organisations today. Maybe I'll become a doctor, or a lawyer, or work in law enforcement. I don't know just yet, what I'll do when I get older. I don't know just yet, what I want to be when I'm older. I just know one thing for sure: and that is that family is important to all of us. So, finally, in conclusion, I want to say that the thing I look forward to the most in my future is having a family and being there for them when they need me._

He dropped his head onto the table, sighing heavily. All done. And it had only taken... a quick glance at the clock out of the corner of his eye said... thirty minutes.

He shot to his feet and gathered his stuff up, before he remembered that he was going to help Jimmy with his assignment, too.

Why exactly did people want to be surgeons? Because it was icky, or you got good money, so long as people weren't blaming you for this or that, or because it helped people, people who mightn't have needed to have the surgery in the first place if their regular old doctor wasn't always preaching that they ignore this or that symptom and just take another pill (the pills will make it all better); if their regular old doctor could say to them, _Look, folks, maintaining your health is the main aim here. Maintaining your body's general fitness and well being so you don't have to end up in here, sitting at my desk, moaning at me and expecting that I'll just hand you a prescription for some wonder pill that will make all your troubles just melt away._

He dropped his shoulders, and sat back down at the kitchen table. He'd better hurry up, too, he reminded himself. His mom was gonna be back in to make tea soon and it'd look real good if she caught him doing Jimmy's work for him, stupid assignment or no.

_Here's the thing. About the world, I mean to say. Even though one day I'm going to be older, and I'd like to think wiser, the world is going to be pretty much the same, pretty much how it's always been. Maybe a little bit more tolerant, a little bit more clever, in the way of technology. So different, but the same. People will still be people. So here's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to fight anyone, or try to change anyone. I have to accept that people are people, and will always be. But I'm going to do one thing. I'm going to help them. When something goes wrong, and there's a problem stopping them from living their lives, from being the best people they can be, and living the best life they can possibly live - I'm going to help them. Because I'm a person, too, right. And I have to live with these people. We're all in it together. One day, I'm going to be a surgeon. And I'll be proud to be one._

_Blah, blah, blah, blah._ Totally Jimmy, right? Maybe not so much, seeing as he was always down on himself, Bobby thought, like his mom was, but that was something he aimed to change, at least, in Jimmy's case. That was just what best friends did for each other. The real ones, anyway. And he was really Jimmy's best friend.

He shut his book and collected up his pencil case and left for his bedroom, wondering what his mom was going to make for dinner, though she always, _always_ made the same thing.

* * *

He'd helped with dinner, and with the washing up afterwards; his dad was even in somewhat of a good mood - he was watching television - so his mom said, yeah, (after asking dad, who was glued pretty much to the TV screen), he could go 'round and see Jimmy. But he'd better be back by half past seven or else look forward to a hidin'.

* * *

Jimmy frowned at him, put out. "Bobby, this isn't how I... like, I just wouldn't never talk like this," he told him, finally.

"You're smart! What are you talking about? You'd totally talk like that. When you're grown up."

"But I'm not grown up now," Jimmy reminded him.

Bobby stared at the window, thinking about that, and trying not to think how late it was getting. "Really?"

"Really," Jimmy stressed. "That's not even how I think."

Bobby stared at him. "Then how do you think. I mean, as a surgeon, I mean, do you really think you're going to stop people, like, shooting each other or stabbing each other or whatever. Or getting sick. That's not what surgeons do. They just fix machines, basically. On... on a different... like, living machines, right. People. They fix... people."

"People aren't machines, Bobby," Jimmy said, giving him a funny look suddenly.

"Sort of, though."

"No. They're not. Not even sort of."

"I reckon they are. Cos we have souls, too, right, and it's our souls that make us us. Not just living machines, I mean. Admittedly, our soul does have a relationship with our body, in a way, which influences us, too, but... but it's not only that. We're not only what we can see, or quantify, or... or whatever. Do you think?"

Jimmy blinked. "Huh? Bobby, have you been drinking?"

Bobby laughed. "I'm eleven. That's a ways from 21, don't you think. You're sooo funny!"

Jimmy shook his head and stood up, turning towards the door. Silently, he meant to say, "You can leave now." What he actually said was, "I'm okay. I can do the assignment myself. We'll catch up tomorrow. Get home safely."

Bobby smiled. "Yes you can! I believe in you! Go _Jimmy_!"

"Bye," Jimmy said.

"Good night, my friend."

Jimmy shut the door after him quietly. He didn't make a fuss about stuff, he just closed off, sorta.

"'Night, Fay," Bobby said to Jimmy's mother, who was watching television in the lounge, waiting for her husband to get home, or maybe, because he _hadn't_ got home from the pub yet.

"Back atcha, kiddo," she replied, without taking her eyes from the TV.

He nodded, and made sure to close the door properly behind him. He sighed, glancing at the street lights down the road. If Jimmy said he could do it, then, he decided, he was going to believe him. He could do it. He could do it!

He smiled, and headed off back home.

At least Jimmy's dad, Kendall, hadn't been in. If he'd been in, he'd have wanted to know _exactly_ why Bobby had come 'round, then he'd have told Jimmy to go sit down and work on his homework whilst he supervised, and if he even spelt one word wrong, or took too long, he'd be called stupid and lazy and ignorant and worthless, and the same would go for Fay, because it would be her fault, in the first place, the Jimmy had let it get so late for him to work on his assignment when he'd known since at least the start of the week; and it was her fault that Jimmy was so stupid cos she'd given him that, that bad blood had come from her side, and definitely not his.

But it was Thursday, and Kendall usually stayed late at the pub on Thursday to watch TV with his friends.

If Jimmy was asleep by the time his dad got back, he probably wouldn't even get hit; then it would just be Fay.

Bobby sighed. It was a real mean thing, just to think it, but sometimes, he thought maybe Fay didn't really protest as much as she might on that fact; that Kendall hit her and their son around the way he did. Sometimes, he couldn't help wondering if that was her excuse, her excuse to say, "You expect me to act like a wife, but you hit me around like I'm some worthless piece of garbage. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, just a little bit? So just you watch me! Just you watch! Your wife, am I! Sure, I'm your wife, and we're married, but I ain't going within a hundred yard o' a mean bastard like you, that's for sure. And you can't expect me to. Not with how you've been treatin' me."

_You're a real mean piece of work, you know that, Bobby!_ he thought to himself darkly. If he didn't work on that attitude, he scolded himself, it might turn out that when he got older, he'd have no one at all. Not even a pretty little girl, let alone any pretty little kids. No one. No one but himself.

Of course, when he got home, it was 7:40, and that was ten minutes past the time he'd agreed to be back, so Martha had to go and dob him in to Lyle. It was only fair, after all. If he couldn't behave, then the necessary steps had to be taken. If she went light on him, she'd be the one getting in trouble for it later. He was old enough now that he had to start acting it. He had to start taking responsibility for his action.

_Thanks, Mom,_ he thought. _It was ten lousy minutes. Dad wasn't even watching the time. Maybe it seems fair to you, after all, for all those years I got you into trouble, and you got hit for it, but it's not fair. On any of us. And it's not fair on Dad. You encourage him. Are you blind? Can't you see that? You're not helping yourself, or him, or even me. Couldn't you at least have waited until Dad's program was over, first. He's gonna be mad now that you dragged him away from the thing._

He was mad; it was written all over his face. He'd been watching something, then Martha, the stupid woman, had come in and interrupted. She couldn't even discipline the kid herself! What kind of a Goddamn mother was she, in that case?

"I'm sorry, sir," Bobby told his father, holding his gaze. "I'll do my very best to not make the same mistake, in future, or to cause you and Mom unnecessary trouble."

His father didn't bother to say anything back to that. What would he say that would make a difference, after all. His son was obviously a delinquent and suffered very serious issues, especially when it concerned rules set down by others.

The kid liked to put on a big show and pretend like he understood more than just himself, that he understood something about the world, but that was all it was, in reality. A big show. And that, unfortunately, he supposed the kid had learnt from his mom, and all of those idiot schoolteachers and the other students; ratbags, all of them.

So he didn't sit down with the kid and try to explain anything to him - he might still have been able to catch the end of his show, a fat load of good that would do; the whole thing was ruined now, wasn't it - he lashed out. Violence was one thing everyone understood. Tall or short, stupid or not. Everyone, the whole world over. They all responded to one thing. Violence.

Which was probably why they were so quick to jump into declaring war with one another. Because violence got results. Every time.

Not that the kid didn't deserve it. He was a kid, and he was an asshole, what was more. He couldn't even listen to his mom, for Christ's sake. His own fuckin' mom. What the Hell kind of an adult was he going to turn out like if he couldn't even listen to his parents at eleven?

A shit head who wasn't worth the air he breathed, that was what!

In the kitchen, his mom shook her head at him, her arms crossed. _Don't come crying to me, boy. You wouldn't listen to me before. You're the one who broke the rules. Get to bed and get out of my hair. You only bring it upon yourself, we both know that. I can't stand with you if you don't stand with me, too._

* * *

Bobby stood outside the schoolyard, waiting for Jimmy to show up and trying not to touch the bruise on his cheek, to prod it or pinch it. He only wanted to play with it so it would hurt more, and that was stupid. It wasn't as though he'd done anything super bad, so his dad was just a jerk for being so hard on him over it, and his mom was a bit of one too, in that case, he decided. When he wasn't around, like whenever he slept over at Jimmy's, which he often did over the weekend, stuff between them got okay again. It was as though some of the stress was just gone, as though they could just go on in their own little worlds and be merry, until he came home again. As though it was his fault their relationship had broken down so much that violence was an acceptable conduit of expressing one's emotions.

_What a load of crap!_ he thought. Even though, sometimes, he couldn't help blaming himself because everyone was blaming him, too; at least, everyone he gave a damn about, inflicting further pain on himself seeming pretty fucking dumb. It wasn't gonna make him stop breaking their rules, because their rules were fucking stupid, to begin with. It was just gonna make him more pissed off at them, and at himself.

And that helped no one.

He spied Jimmy trudging over, and ran to catch him up. "Hey!"

Jimmy frowned at his bruise, typically. Even though his dad hit him around too, occasionally, he always still acted like it was so alien, to see someone with a bruise or a hurt look on their face.

But Bobby didn't have a hurt look on his face. He was smiling. "I fell over," he said, finally. "Come on, it was dark! It's pretty funny, no? Stupid, like, way stupid, but funny! I'm, like, the world's biggest idiot!" He started laughing.

Jimmy didn't laugh.

He stopped laughing. "Hey, hey, hey! But what about your masterpiece!"

"Actually, I thought about it, and I couldn't really think of anything to write. Can I borrow that think you showed me last night?"

Bobby nodded, and put his bag down to look for it. When he'd found it, he passed it to Jimmy, smiling at him.

"You know, Bobby, people are going to think bad things about you if you're always smiling like that," Jimmy told him, taking the piece of paper and tucking it into a pocket.

"You know why I'm smiling? Cos I'm happy. You know why I'm happy? Cos I have an awesome friend!"

"Still, I think it makes you look weird," Jimmy said.

"Weird's not a real word, you know. It just means different, like different from most of the other stuff, or different as in, _I haven't seen that before. It's different._ I mean, it is a word, but it's more like a derogatory word."

He frowned. "What's that?"

Bobby refrained from saying, "A mean word." He'd only upset Jimmy. Instead, he started laughing. "Did I tell you I fell over yesterday when I was walking home?"

"You told me already," Jimmy said, uninterested.

"When you're a surgeon, I won't have to worry about being clumsy. If I fall over or, like, get hurt cos I'm... uncoordinated, you can just fix it again!"

"That's not how it works, Bobby," Jimmy told him. "Doctors and surgeons and stuff have schedules, and _loads_ of patients. Plus, you shouldn't go around not watching out what you're doing cos you think someone can just fix it if you hurt yourself. You can't always fix everything."

"I'll remember that," Bobby replied. "At least," he smiled, "I'll try to."

Jimmy shook his head. "Can you try to be more serious, too."

"Sure can, best friend!"

Jimmy made a face, but didn't look at him. "And can you stop calling me that in front of other people. It's kind of embarrassing. Even if you don't get embarrassed easily and have no shame, I do."

"Sure," Bobby agreed.

"Well, can you start like now?" Jimmy pressed.

"Sure."

"Okay."

* * *

Fay sighed, stubbing out her cigarette in the tray. Across the table from her, Martha Bowman was prattling on about her husband never showing her any attention. At least, not any _real_ attention. He showed the kid more attention than her, these days. It was pathetic, really.

Fay had the urge to stand up and tell her _she_ was the one who was pathetic! If she wanted that sort of attention, she'd just have to go out and get it herself, like she had. Her husband hit her around, that was true, but he was a damn fool; a damn fool for hitting her, and a damn fool in general. She couldn't fathom why she'd married the idiot, nor why they'd had that lump of a son. He was so lazy, and everyday, it seemed, he got fatter and fatter. It was getting to the stage that she didn't want to be seen in town with him, anymore. It was such a fuckin' embarrassment!

Though, in a way, she supposed she wasn't that unhappy her husband was such a bloody fool. If he'd have had any brains, after all, he'd have discovered she was sleeping around on the side, then he'd have discovered her boyfriend.

And that would have really got her angry.

Martha was just a damn fool for not doing the same, in her opinion. Only, she didn't dare say that to her. The woman was also slightly nuts.

In truth, her marriage had started to fall apart after the kid was born and her husband started on the grog. It had changed him. She didn't know if it was any one thing, or a combination of them: the kid, the pressure, the expectation, the knowledge that the kid would likely outlive them both, though he acted like he had nothing to fucking live for, the ungrateful lump, and so forth. She wasn't really the type to think to hard on stuff like that, either. And then, when the kid's little friend had started coming 'round to stay weekends, it was as though she really had nothing to do anymore. She was there, but she wasn't.

The boys'd want to hang out with a guy, not with her, the _mom_. Moms were boring. Only girls hung out with their moms. That was two years ago.

Really, it had been a Godsend. It had opened her eyes up again for the first time in years, and she'd realised: _Hey, I'm a person too!_

Martha was just a dill, really. But she was company, Fay supposed. Someone to talk to about all of that trivial women's trash people were incessantly expected to talk about. So she let her go on, and, sometimes, she chipped into the conversation with some of her own stuff, and Martha felt like she had a real friend - What a God awful loser! - but mostly Fay just listened, and counted the time 'til she could meet up with her boyfriend again.

At least she had something to look forward to. Life wasn't a total drag.

She let out an amused laugh. Shit, she'd only just remembered. Her son'd had this assignment for school, Bobby must've had the same assignment - they were in the same grade. "So you know what my boy says? What he says he wants to be when he gets older?"

"No. What?" Martha asked, in a voice that Fay had no fuckin' trouble believin' meant she had no bloody clue whatsoever. The woman's imagination was fuckin' mind-boggling (and non-existent).

"A surgeon! My boy, Martha, wants to be a surgeon!" She was practically dying of hilarity.

"I just wish mine'd have a bit of ambition. _He_ doesn't _know_ what he wants to be! Has no fuckin' idea, pardon my French. No fuckin' idea! I'm just... you know, I just pray it ain't that he decides he wants to be a high school dropout."

Fay cracked up. (Martha's fault.) "He's a bright boy, I'll give you that, Martha."

Martha frowned, shaking her head slowly. "No, he's not. That's what I'm sayin' her, Fay. He's not bright at all. He's a fuckin' idiot. And he don't care. Not one fuckin' iota, I should say! Not one fuckin' iota! He's just happy to go on bein' a fuckin' idiot. I'm at my wit's end! It's getting to that stage. I mean, it's already there! We're at that stage. We are! Right now. We don't know what to do. I don't know what to do, and Lyle hasn't any more bright ideas than I have."

Fay sighed and lit another cigarette. She took a drag, and passed the ciggie to Martha. "Relax."

Martha laughed bitterly. "How am I suppose to relax? He's in high school, for God sake! Your boy's gonna be a surgeon, and what's mine gonna be? A criminal! I just - _literally_ - _don't know what to do anymore_, Fay!"

Fay shrugged, feeling better already about her own son. At least he wasn't a trouble-maker the way Bobby was; always starting fights with his dad. "Maybe you should have him see someone," she suggested. "A counsellor, or someone."

"Oh no."

She tossed her head, and lit up another cigarette. She got Martha's reluctance. She didn't want the kid lagging her in for allowing the husband to hit him, though, obviously, the kid was looking for it. If he never paid attention to either of his parents and just did whatever he bloody well liked, Fay would have smacked him one, too. If he'd been her kid, he'd have been bloody black and blue from head to toe. She'd say he fell down the steps. Who'd say otherwise? The fuckin' shit'd be so terrified, he'd shut his fucking pie hole for good. Likely, he'd even start behaving himself afterwards, too.

That was Martha's problem, she thought. She left everything up to her husband. She bet, if she could, that the woman would even leave it up to him if she breathed or not.

She sighed, and nodded, watching Martha smoke the rest of the cigarette she'd given her, a dark scowl on her face. Well, with that expression plastered to her face, it was no wonder the men weren't exactly lining up to take her out.

If her son didn't end up either a criminal, or dead, Fay would be fuckin' surprised. The kid looked to have about as much smarts as his mom, which meant _nada_.

* * *

"Bobby Bowman, is this your own work, or did Mommy and Daddy help you out _just a weensy bit_?"

"Actually, no, you're right, Miss, spot on; it was Father Aaron."

"Father Aaron?" his teacher repeated.

Bobby shrugged. "Aaron, Evan, Ryan, who knows!"

She shook her head. "I'd like you to go to the Principal's office, Bobby. I trust you can find your way there by yourself."

"Yes, Miss." He smiled.

She pointed to his desk. "And your things. You won't be coming back to my class today. You might as well take them with you."

"Certainly, Miss."

Jimmy made a face at him. Why was he winding her up even more? It was so stupid. What if she found out he'd helped him? Then he'd get sent to the Principal's office, too, and his dad would be so, so mad. He'd get called mean names, and beat up. Why was he being so stupid? Was it on purpose cos he thought he'd been short with him yesterday. That was only because he was always so stupid! It was his own fault!

"Be good. Have fun. Don't worry, I'll be fine. Won't take a moment. You'll see," Bobby told him quietly. "The Principal'll just send me to the library to think about my behaviour and, you know, write some crap about how I always wanted to be a doctor cos doctors get all the hot babes." He bit his lip, trying not to laugh to loudly. "No sweat. See ya."

Jimmy said nothing, was afraid of drawing more attention to himself. He hated how Bobby was always like that; always _blasé_ about everything, like nothing really mattered unless he wanted it to, in his head.

He was such a dork. To be truthful, he kind of didn't know why he still hung around the weirdo. He was always acting like he was on drugs, or something. It was creepy, and he didn't like it.

If he didn't grow up, Jimmy thought, he'd have to drop him. Even if he got picked on for being on his own, at least he wouldn't get picked on for being a druggo or a homo or something.

* * *

The Principal didn't really know him, it was his first year at his school, but he'd told him the story about how he'd fallen over in the dark and whacked his head on the ground, and, like, it had totally hurt (I know, how weird is that; like, when you're a little kid, you just pop right back up again), so he said he'd give him a chance to reflect on his behaviour and decide if he wanted to improve and take his future (and his education) seriously, or face suspension. Naturally, he'd send a letter home with him at the end of the day, but, for now, he wouldn't disturb his parents. He was sure they had their own busy lives (and busy jobs) to attend to.

Bobby was sent to one of the rooms that wasn't being used by any class (sadly, not the library; the chairs were much better there), and asked to think about his behaviour.

And then there was the 800 word essay: Why I should always do my own work, and not ask Mom and Dad (or my local priest) to do it for me. Eight hundred words was kind of a ripoff, Bobby thought. He could do it in under ten. _I don't learn anything._ Although, he could argue otherwise, as he'd obviously had to copy it out into his own handwriting, which subconsciously affected him in some way, surely. Some way that was very like learning. Wasn't learning just a matter of absorbing something someone else had said, or written, or advised, or directed? At eleven, exactly how much practical hands-on learning did they get to do, apart from Art. And Art was really a joke. It wasn't as though the Art teacher could actually help them on their journey to becoming artists by _showing_ them how to do something. It was just a case of, "Take this", "Do something with it", "Don't bother showing your face to me again until you have".

_You must be more co-operative, Bobby_, he told himself. _You must be exactly alike to all of the other robot humans. Assimilate._ He snickered. _Over my dead body!_

The teacher at the front of the classroom stood up, and walked over to check he was working on his essay.

"_Eight hundred words!_" he complained loudly. "How am I gonna know when I've written 800? I can't count that far! Can my Mom count and see if I've written enough."

The teacher crossed his arms and shook his head, a clear sign that he wasn't impressed.

Bobby rolled his eyes and began copying down the question from the blackboard into his exercise book.

"An essay has a clearly definable beginning, middle, and ending," the teacher replied darkly. "Until you've gotten to the ending, you have written enough. If you've written over 800 words, you'll just have to find a way to get your point across in fewer words. Be more succinct."

"Whatever that means."

"Precise," the teacher snapped.

Bobby scribbled a note to himself in his exercise book, _Bee Preesis Doo Not Dilly Dallee Uboot Wiv Werds_

The teacher shook his head again.

Bobby smiled. They might have at least bothered to explain the concept of how to carry out a logical argument, with him, or even explained essay-writing. But had they? Had the teacher standing in front of him with that _This one's going to fall down, for sure_ look on his face? No. None of them had.

* * *

At lunchtime, the teacher said he had to stay indoors. He'd be allowed to go to his locker for his lunch, but he'd have to come back to the classroom to eat it.

Bobby rolled his eyes and stood up. "What are you going to do? Feel me up!" He made a move for the door.

The teacher hurried to step in the way of the door.

"Please," Bobby replied. He pointed to the windows. "I am not sitting in here and eating my lunch! I refuse! I'm going outside and sitting with my friend, like I usually do! Are you going to stop me? What do I look like to you! I'm not your toy, you freak! I'M ALIVE, AND I HAVE RIGHTS!"

At that point, the teacher stormed over and grabbed him by the arm.

It was back to the Principal's office.

He sat in the chair he'd been directed to and glared ill-temperedly at the Principal's picture frame, the one with the photograph of his beautiful, young wife. Maybe he'd knock it over and break it; or maybe he'd just threaten to.

It was just bullshit that they were all treating him like he wasn't even human! _What the fuck did he look like?_ he wanted to shout at them both, the teacher and the Principal. _Did he not look human enough for them? Did that give them a feeling of security, that they could treat him like trash and expect him to take it lying down! Were _they_ even fucking _human_?_

* * *

The reason he'd really started going over to Jimmy's and staying over on the weekends was because he'd noticed that Jimmy often came to school with bruises and scratches and other assorted little injuries he liked to hide. He never told anyone about them. He was Kendall and Fay's good little son. The reason Bobby had decided to stay over at Jimmy's was because he thought, with him there, maybe Jimmy's dad wouldn't hit him, and maybe his mom would step in to diffuse any complications should they arise.

And, for the most part, it had seemed to work. When he was there, Jimmy didn't get hit. He still got called names, lazy and fat and _You're nothing but a useless lump_, but not as much, he imagined, not as much when there was someone else around to talk to, and he did try to engage Jimmy's father in intelligent conversation as much as possible; not just what team he followed or barracked for, but stuff where you had to have an opinion and think about why you did. Or they'd just talk about stuff, stuff you could do with your hands, practical stuff; cars, motors, fixing the washing machine when it went bung, the plumbing, farming, all sorts of stuff.

Kendall could talk to him about that sort of stuff. Jimmy would mostly tune it out; it wasn't the regular stuff 11-year-olds talked about, what was it?, was it an alien language, a foreign language, it was all very strange.

But there was one other thing.

One other thing that Bobby really, really hated to have to put up with. Kendall was a creep. He'd never done anything to Jimmy, as far as Bobby knew, but he was a creep. A major creep. If he'd ever started to look at Jimmy that way, or any other kids, Bobby would have killed him himself. Wouldn't have cared what anyone said. Not even Jimmy. Not even Fay. Would have fucking laughed if his father said two words.

But he had to stay. He had to stay for Jimmy's sake. He just wished, sometimes, that when he stayed, Jimmy didn't always leave.

He didn't like Jimmy's dad that way. He didn't like men that way. He was eleven, for fuck sake! He'd _been_ nine! He was a fucking kid! Didn't anyone get it, anymore! It was a sick fucking state of affairs. Sick fucking state of affairs, alright.

Fay, for her part, would make like she was busy on the phone. And maybe she was. That late at night, though. She'd spend hours on that phone. Relatives, she'd say. She was ringing her folks; her sister, out of state.

There was a photograph of Fay's sister on the mantel. In this picture, they were both kids. Fay's sister more chubby than her. She looked a little like Jimmy, or maybe it was the other way around. Jimmy looked a little like her.

Bobby hated that house. Arguably, he even hated that picture of Fay and her sister. It wasn't that he hated it, really. It was only a house. But it was a place of bad things, for him, and he hated it. Even more than he hated his parents' joint. If he thought about it that way, his place actually did look like home. It even felt a little like it. Even with everything going on; his shit, his parents' shit, their constant punch-ups. It wasn't Jimmy place. It was somewhere else. It was practically fuckin' Heaven.

* * *

The Principal called his parents and he had to go home. The Principal had had words with his parents, firstly, of course. He'd had to sit outside, in the reception area. The chairs were total crap, and there was nothing to do.

Bobby honestly hoped his dad really got mad. At least, then, he'd have a reason for not going to Jimmy's. Maybe Jimmy would be pissed, his parents would be pissed - shit, they'd have to keep him for a couple of extra days - and Kendall would surely be pissed, but Bobby would laugh in all of their faces. _You fucking creeps!_

Maybe not Jimmy's. Jimmy was his best friend. Best friends stuck by one another.

He closed his eyes and thought about that one, thought about what Jimmy would say if he asked him not to go when he, once again, slunk off to his room. Maybe he would just come out with it, tell him; just like that. Could he do that? What would Jimmy do then? Would he take his side, or his dad's? Would he say, "Bullshit, if anything had been going on, Mom would have known about it!" Or would he call him a liar and a fucking creep and tell him he wished he was dead? And then, what would happen if they were no longer friends? If he didn't have to go 'round to Jimmy's house anymore? Would Jimmy make new friends, or would he stay on his own? Would the other kids pick on him and call him _fat_ or whatever it was they always called him anyway, in whispers behind his back? Would his dad pick on him next?

He started taking deep breaths. _Stop it_, he told himself sternly. _You're not going to throw up. You'll be fine. Did you hear me? You'll be fine. Stop it now._

His parents came out, after a while, and the Principal with them, all of them looking unhappy.

He supposed it was time to go home. He almost hugged his parents. Not quite.

He saw Jimmy in the schoolyard, as he was leaving to go home. Jimmy said nothing to him, so he said nothing back. But he almost cried. (What did that mean? What was that about? Were they still friends, even though he'd probably gone and gotten himself suspended for being a smart mouth?)

It wasn't until he'd gotten home, and his dad had been not so nice, and, yes, it sort of hurt, but- but- he wondered. Did it hurt? Really? Did he love his parents? Did he care about Jimmy? Did he care about anything? Was he real? A real person? Or... or what?

Maybe, on any other day, he'd have been able to tell himself that everyone felt disconnected from their circumstances, their emotions, even their own bodies, from other people around them, people they loved and cared for, but not on this day.

On this day, maybe, maybe just a _little_ bit, he didn't want to be human anymore, didn't want to be alive, anymore.

* * *

Fay laughed and hugged her boyfriend. He'd had a shitty day! What about her day! But "Okay," she resigned, "tell me about your day?"

"That fucking kid!" There was really something fucking fucked up with that kid, he said.

She lit a cigarette. Shit, she thought, weren't all kids like that. She was glad she'd only ever had one. Damn glad.


End file.
